Greta adjusted her clothes, and kissed his mouth a few last times. “We can’t be at it like this.”
Hans grinned, knowing Greta liked the way his lips shaped into a smile, and reached up for her hand. “Just a few more times. Just once or twice when there’s none about and there’s only chance bringing you and me amongst the hay or—”
“Shush your mouth. You know it won’t do.” But Greta smiled, and did not take her hand away, or resist, as Hans pulled her closer, and began unlacing her all over again.
“Perhaps,” she whispered into his ear, and yet she thought, We must not, we can’t…. But the thought trailed away. She said nothing, only opening her mouth for more kisses.
The next morning, wiping the mouths of her youngest brothers and sisters, working the dough, feeding the hens, Greta sought to gather the strength to tell Hans no for a final time. He was in the fields with their father and uncles and the other men. Not having him there in front of her, not feeling his eyes upon her or his arms around her, she felt sure she could tell him no. She could tell him to find a bride, to look to another for what they’d had together.
All day Greta steeled herself and practiced and practiced it over in her head; picturing how she must approach Hans and what she should say. If she did not imagine him too closely, it was easily done, but when she thought about the length of his eyelashes, the feel of his breath on her neck, then her thoughts went awry and she could tell him nought but what he wanted to hear. She made her excuses to be away at midday meal, so as not to see him. Come sundown and the evening meal, she had it shaped fine in her head, and could tell him how it should be, even imagining his eyes on hers, and the pleading that was in them, and still keep her no firm, and her shawl about her.
After all had eaten, and the girls had cleared and scraped and cleaned, Greta and her brother Hans went walking. Greta kept her distance and shied away when he made to move a little closer. She kept her head low and let him talk of this and that till his tone grew serious. “So what is it that’s keeping my sister so quiet?”
“Oh,” said Greta, “The same as ever. This thing of you and me. We must stop and you must get yourself a wife. You are full grown and handsome and well-to-do, thanks to her who is no longer. You have to find a wife.”
“Find a wife, you say. So you’re setting me a task. If I find myself a wife, then…”
Greta felt dizzy and did not hear all he said. “A wife? Yes, find yourself a wife.” She turned and made her way back to the house, telling herself that she was not running, and that her eyes did not sting.
Within the week Hans had asked Beth Colven, and she, trembling and blushing, had said yes, and they were all—all, for it was spring and there was seven pair to be joined—packed into the kirk on Sunday, and there was dancing and beer and laughter, and Greta danced with Beth’s brother William, and many others. The wedding cakes were sugary and light and airy, but one groom brushed them away, saying he had not the tooth for sweetmeats. His sister Greta ate no cake neither, though Tom Hode offered it to her: “A sweet for my sweet.”
“I’m not your sweet, and besides, I’ve no liking for them.”
The merriment lasted the night through. At first light, fair Beth and all the other brides were without their maidenhoods, and the sheets were held aloft amidst blushing and laughter.
Greta took herself to the outhouse. In between the heartache and the retching, Greta noted that her own blood had not come. She wiped her mouth with her hand, straightened her dress, took a few uneven steps back towards the house—and then Hans was before her.
“What are you about?” said Greta—harsher than she intended, but his clothes were disarrayed and he looked happy when he should be as heartfelt distraught as she was.
“I done my task now, are you happy?”
“What’re you speaking of, stupid brother? Task? I see a wedding, and blood on a sheet.”
“As you told me. I got myself a wife.”
“As I told you? A wife…”
Hans put his arms about Greta and smoothed her hair. “It’s done and now we can be together.” He kissed her mouth and she felt the heat growing between them and she thought of the babe, likely, forming inside her and also of Beth newly filled.
“I told you no, and no, and no. I set no task. I saved you. Again. Saved you from me and me from you.”
Hans’s face looked as though there were no blood beneath his skin, only bone. “It was for you, was done to—”
“None of your nonsense,” said Greta, pulling away from him, out of his arms. “We’re of blood. You know it is wrong and cursed—her curse—and there can be nothing between us.”
“They say a saint is always born of such a union.”
Greta slapped the smile from her brother’s face. The tears leaked out of her eyes slow and steady, and then all at once. Greta cried and cried and found herself in her brother’s arms and them wound round tight together till there was no beginning and no end. And when they were spent, Hans, he slept where he lay, but Greta woke thinking only that the miracle of their undiscovery could not last; and not caring if Hans found his way into his Beth’s arms, not bothering to reassemble herself, she made her way to her cot at the back of the house, away from noise and frivolity; curled up and planned the rest of her life away, thinking: It’s done with, now—over and gone.
A wedding of her own there must be. A father for her child whose own father was uncle and father both. She kept herself and Hans apart. No easy task. Greta told him no and no and no and kept herself steady with her nos though that oft-repeated word produced bruises bigger than plums on fair Beth’s face.
Greta knew her own wedding would be easy. She had heard her beauty praised often enough. Even the local lord and each and every one of his sons and knights had tried to tumble her. And besides, there was her dowry, that would make a beauty of any woman.
The week she plotted to bring the bonds of wedlock about her, there were a dozen or more offers. She told them all no. Edmund Hayes, Georgie Telfer, and Georgie’s brother Lochie had had their nos before but were content to try for them once again.
She told herself, as each and every one asked, that she must say yes and be done, but her tongue betrayed her, and “no” slid out once more. She had reasons enough behind each shake of her head, but the most of it was that they would all put at least eight mile between her and her home, between her and Hans. So her nos continued unabated till William Colven asked. Colven who had a farm with ten head of cattle and goats and geese and wheat and apples and much much more besides, as he told Greta at length, listing and listing, till he got down to the very lint in the house and dirt in his fields. Greta wasn’t listening, though she nodded her head and smiled shyly as though she was thrilled at every word. She was thinking, He’s brother to Beth, and his father’s farm nearby. Hans and me, we can see each other when we will.
Greta bade William seek her family’s consent. “My father and mother both, and,” she felt her heart shift a little as she said it, “my brother as well.” She did not look up at William.
“The littlies too?” he asked, chucking her under the chin as though she was as young as they. “And the oldest not yet ten years?”
“Seth is almost twelve now, and Mary is not far behind him, kind sir,” said Greta, sinking to the ground as though she was a lady’s maid. “You need not ask their leave, but you must not forget to ask my brother Hans, for he is of a heavy mood.”
Greta went to Hans ahead of William. He was out in the far field. Hans smiled when he saw his sister coming toward him. There were butterflies about, and the sun was warm with the smell of flowers in the air, but he did not reach for his beloved sister, nor kiss her mouth, and his smile stayed there but shortly. There were plenty of folk about—Hans knew enough to be cautious—and besides, she had been cold with him of late.